


take me, baby, or leave me

by obbets



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Mafia AU, S E X, Unrequited Love, if you say you're not in love enough times that makes it true, it's fine she'll be fine don't worry about it, rosa hates smokers and hates casual sex and hates people who don't speak their feelings, yes all of these are definitely true
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28359129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbets/pseuds/obbets
Summary: They've been friends with benefits for a while. Well. Fuckbuddies. "Friends" would imply that she's a whole lot more familiar with him than she is. Not for lack of trying.Maybe this time...
Relationships: rosa maria/ hyperion dogmatiko





	take me, baby, or leave me

There are bruises on her inner thighs, bite marks at her neck and collarbone, the smell of his aftershave and cigarette smoke is all over her. The sex had been good. It was always good. Say what you want about the man, but he’s not a selfish lover, and he has never left her unsatisfied. 

He’s never left her sexually unsatisfied. 

She glances at him, lying with his back to her, red lines still visible from her nails the night before, bruises and bite marks visible on the skin not covered by the sheet draped across his waist. Reminders that she had returned the favour. 

Rosa’s pretty sure she’s never left him sexually unsatisfied, either. 

(She doesn’t know for sure, because he’s a frustrating, frustrating man, and he refuses to have a normal conversation like an _adult_. She hardly knows anything about him, and they’ve been fucking for _months_.)

She’s _tried_ to get to know him. She’s been trying. She wants him, she really, really wants him. 

She’s tired. 

Bare feet on the carpet, she slips out of bed, grabs a towel, turns on the shower. She takes her time, scrubs her body, tries to wash the scent of him off her skin - and manages, for the most part. (The soap and water don’t do anything for the bruises, the way she can still feel his stubble rasping against her jaw, the echo of his fingers pressing her down into her bed as he fucks her.) 

Eventually, she turns off the water, roughly dries herself and pulls on an oversized T-shirt and a fresh pair of underwear. Pretty, with bows. At least she can appreciate them, even if nobody else will. The material of her shirt sticks to her damp skin, hangs and clings strangely as she pads through to the kitchen, but she’s got no patience to do anything about it today. Rosa turns on the kettle, and leans against the counter as it boils, staring at the floor of her kitchen, at the chipped nail polish on her toes. Imperfect. 

The water boils, and she pours herself a cup of coffee just as he walks in, the jeans he had been wearing last night slung low on his hips, showing off his perfect, perfect abs and the trail of bite marks she had left last night from his chest down his stomach when she had been- she turns back to her coffee, stirring the milk in. 

(The first time, she had made enough for him as well, but he hadn’t wanted it. She had only learned that he doesn’t like coffee some weeks later; he prefers fruit juice. She just assumed he hadn’t wanted to stick around long enough to drain the cup.) 

“Don’t know how you can drink that poison,” his voice is gruff, even more so in the morning, still thick from sleep, but it’s a familiar jibe. 

“Better than your cancer sticks,” she replies, her usual retort to his strange aversion to the only thing that helps her get up in the morning. She doesn’t _like_ that he’s constantly smoking, but she doesn’t have the right to ask him to change it. That’s not who she is to him. 

He pulls out the carton of orange juice from the fridge and gets himself a glass (he moves around her kitchen like he knows it, like family, not bothering to ask because he already knows the answer is yes. And that thought shouldn’t squeeze at her heart like it does, but. That’s what she wants, isn’t it? She loves the nights before, god knows she does, but she wants the mornings after too; she wants him to kiss her on the shoulder or the neck or the cheek when he walks into a room, she wants him to stick around the next day. She wants him to ask her on a date, another one, another. She wants to ask _him_ out. She wants flowers, courtship, she wants to know his last _fucking_ name.)

She turns and hops up to sit on the kitchen counter, feet tapping in the air, and sips at her coffee, watching his throat work as he drinks the juice, a dark hickey already visible there. She had enjoyed giving that to him. Her fingers itch to reach out and touch him, she wants more of him, to leave more bite marks and scratches and bruises. But she also wants to sleep wrapped in his arms, to spend a morning pressing lazy kisses to his skin, to walk down the street holding his hand. 

She doesn’t love him. Not yet. But the threat is there, in the way he makes her laugh when he cracks a joke, the way he runs his fingers through his hair when he’s thinking, the way he makes her breakfast when he wakes up first the morning after, which is most of the time. The occasional tenderness that seeps through the cracks, the way she sometimes feels his loneliness clinging to him like a shroud, and thinks, _he’s like me_. Rosa likes his smirk a lot but she likes his smile more (she’s seen it twice, once when she had briefly managed to get him talking about his sister, and once when she had asked about the baby she had first seen him with. Both occasions have stuck in her mind ever since). 

No, Rosa doesn’t love him. But she knows she could. If he would let her. 

He finishes his juice and she says his name, coffee cup still half full but mostly forgotten in her hands. “Hyperion.” Steeling herself, gathering her courage because no she doesn’t think this will end well but _god_ , she wants it to. “Are you ever going to ask me on a date?” Her teeth catch on her lip as she tries not to hope too hard. Hopes anyway. 

He turns, and regards her, those silver eyes sweeping from her bare feet up her exposed legs, taking in the shirt sticking to her skin, her bare face, nothing on it but moisturiser. 

“Rosa…” 

She suppresses a shiver when his eyes catch hers, and he steps forward, taking the coffee cup out of her unresisting fingers and setting it aside, hand running up her leg to hook her knee over his hip, and pulling her into a thorough kiss, tongue pressed against hers and stubble rasping against her cheeks. Rosa twines her arms around his neck, pressing herself against his body, his chest warming hers through the thin material of her shirt. Is this a yes? God, she hopes this is a yes. 

He kisses her breathless, and when they part, it’s with her chest heaving against his, a smile on her lips, eyes shining with hope as she looks up at him, reaching up, tracing his temple with her fingertips and tucking a bit of hair behind his ear. And waits.

He doesn’t reciprocate. Doesn’t smile back, or kiss her hair, or… finish his sentence.

The feeling that had begun to build in her chest bursts abruptly when she realises he isn’t going to reply. Not even to give her the dignity of a _no_. Just this awful, awful silence. 

"...Oh.” She exhales, slowly. Rejection hurts, even when you know the answer. She had steeled herself for this, but it still hurts. _Why doesn’t he-_ no, Rosa. Not now. "So. So that's all, then."

At least don’t cry over him while he’s right _there_. Just… god. Just act cool, she can be cool. 

She’s lucky she doesn’t love him. It would be so much worse if she loved him.

Rosa pushes him away and looks down at her feet, because she doesn’t want him to see whatever expression is on her face right now. Picking up her cup and taking a sip, just needing something to do with her hands. “I think… I think it’s time for you to go. I have some things I need to do, so.”

She’s been chasing after him for months, it’s - it’s _embarrassing_ , now that she thinks about it. Basically throwing herself at him, knowing she wants more but accepting a sex-only arrangement because maybe he would... what? Change his mind? Miraculously decide she’s what he wants, although he’s had a thousand opportunities to do so already? He’s shown her what he wants, hasn’t he? It’s hardly his fault that she had gone and caught feelings for him. She had just thought- maybe, if she waited, if she kept _trying_ , that maybe he could want her too. 

Arms crossed protectively over her body, she doesn’t look up until he’s left the room. Her bare feet make no sound as she goes to lean a hand on the kitchen doorframe and listens to the soft sounds of him moving about her bedroom, before he reemerges in the clothes he had worn last night. His eyes meet hers. “Guess I’ll see you ‘round, Rosa.”

Can he not feel what she’s feeling? 

“Yeah, see you ‘round,” she echoes. She doesn’t know if she will. She’s not sure if she wants to. (She does, she _does_ want to, but. But he doesn’t want her. Not like she wants him. And that’s not fair on either of them.)

He slips his shoes on, one hand leaning on her door, opens it, fingers fumbling in his pocket, and she knows it’s going to be cigarettes he pulls out before they emerge, she just knows it. Knows him. Her eyes track his fingers as they place one between his lips, and he speaks around it, which shouldn’t be as attractive to her as it is. (She hates smokers. Remember that.) “Rosa…” 

She looks up at him, fingers tangling around the hem of her shirt, exposing some of the purpling fingerprints he had left on her thighs, her heart speeding up. “Yes?” 

His gaze slips down, tracking her fingertips, and she watches his intentions change, his eyes go half lidded, his tongue dart out to lick his lips. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, lips pursing to say something, the smallest hint of a smirk forming. _Of course._

Rosa interrupts him before he has a chance to make the offer she knows is coming. She has to interrupt him, because she knows that she won’t be able to deny him if she doesn’t. Won’t want to deny him. 

“Bye, Hyperion.” Lord, but she wants to kiss him. 

If they had been two different people, if she could have been someone he _wanted_ , maybe he would have stepped forward and wrapped an arm round her waist, pressed his lips to hers and then kissed her cheek, her temple. Whispered her name, said something less like _goodbye_ and more like _see you soon._

But he is who he is, and she’s just Rosa, so he just gives her a searching look, cigarette back in his mouth, and leaves, fingers digging into his pockets for his lighter. She watches him go from her door, but he doesn’t look back. She’s not sure if that’s better, or worse. Once he’s out of sight, Rosa gently closes her front door, and sits on her sofa, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. 

She could do with some more sleep, but her bed will still smell like him, and... she doesn’t want to deal with that just yet. 

*

Three weeks later, the bruises have faded, and she throws away the carton of orange juice she had bought for him, still half full.

**Author's Note:**

> hehe :3


End file.
